


from the patterns i've carved

by orekako



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Experimental Style, Gen, Mentioned Grayson | Purpled, POV Second Person, Post-TommyInnit's Death, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29912613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orekako/pseuds/orekako
Summary: Today is a normal, perfect day in L'Manberg. What could go wrong?In which two ghosts have a chat. Tommy is hopeful, and Wilbur is stuck inside a cycle of opinions where there's two clear ways, and he always takes the easy one.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	1. twisting up smokes, i'm in control

**Author's Note:**

> Folks, this is kind of a weird one not gonna lie. I'll be honest, I just cranked this out as an experiment because I wanted to see if I could write from a second person POV, and somehow a plot emerged from the depths of my writing. 
> 
> Title from Birdtalker's 'Better in the Morning,' a love letter from the songwriter to all the people who are hurting and trying so hard to heal. To people with ghosts in your life—I hope you find closure one day.

Today is a normal, perfect day in L’Manberg. The grass is damp with morning dew below your feet, the sounds of chatter bright and distant. A bare hint of breeze sweeps through the pine needles around you. The sun shines lovely and sunny, its rays warming your overcoat from the night before.

Everything is beautiful, everything is good. There’s so much that needs to be done, but you want to revel in this small slice of morning before the work beckons you to your seat. 

Tubbo sits by the edge of the lake, hat discarded to his side and legs swinging casually in the water. Peaceful and calm, he greets you with his head tilted backwards. “Hello!” he says. 

“Hello,” you call back. Tubbo is a loyal supporter; you are glad to have him by your side. “Fine day for a dip.”

Tubbo makes a noise of assent. “It’s nice out today,” he says. “Lately it’s just been a lot of hail and lightning and thunder, so I’m happy that the sun's decided to come out today.”

You nod. “You never know when it’s going to come back, too. But it’s nice today.”

“Yea,” Tubbo agrees. “It’s much quieter too, now. I think I heard Tommy shouting earlier, but for some reason he’s silent now. I should go check up on him.”

“Mm.” You hope no one has gotten horrendously hurt. There are very few reasons you can think of as to why Tommy has gone quiet, and besides unconsciousness and sleep, you don’t really have a lot to go off of. Remaining incognito has never been Tommy’s strong suit, but it is a possibility. “Indoor and outdoor voices are the same for him.”

Tubbo stares at you solemnly, his features sobering up into something more somber. “Do you think he’s gotten himself in trouble?”

“Tommy’s always in trouble, Tubbo.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says slowly at first, and then more enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yeah! It’s not like Tommy’s in serious harm. No, surely not. He can handle whatever is thrown at him.” His face morphs into something more relaxed, and you smile back at him. 

“Just enjoy this moment, Tubbo,” you advise. “You’ll get pulled into whatever antics Tommy is doing sooner or later, so worry about it when he comes for you. Enjoy the life around you right now, yeah?” 

You turn to look back at the calm ripples in the lake. A beat passes between you. 

“I’m just glad I’m here enjoying the weather, you know?” Tubbo’s eyes glint with the reflection of water, and the corner of his mouth is pulled upward. “And enjoying the present company, of course. It’s always raining when you’re gone.” 

You echo, “Of course.” The confession of friendship makes you feel slow and sweet, like honey in water. 

The buzz of bees drone in the background when you sit down. They fly by, fat and lazy with pollen dripping from their bodies. Yellow bumbling breaks the patterned blues and grays and whites of the sky. Clouds, wispy and cirrus, drift by and promise cool shade in the afternoon. Beautifully, marvelously, they are painted with wide brushes in broad streaks and strokes. 

Quiet sweeps in waves as the two of you sit in companionable silence. It is a slow start to a good day. You want to stay here and listen to the world waking up. You could stay here forever. 

The reverie is broken by Tommy bursting out of the woodwork, a loose bundle of cloth clutched tightly his arms. “Come on, Tubbo, run, run, run!” His face is flushed red with exhilaration and excitement and exertion, manically gleeful with youth. 

“Hello, Tommy,” you greet amusedly. Tommy’s foggy eyes dart towards you guiltily, and his response is cursory:

“Hi, Wilbur!” He yanks Tubbo up by his arm, and despite Tubbo’s _wait, what’s going on, Tommy, slow down!_ they’re off in a flash. “Bye, Wilbur! You didn’t see me!” 

You are left in the wake of dirt and dust. 

Eret pushes out of the brush a minute later. Their eyes are indecipherable under their dark sunglasses, but their lips are pressed thin in annoyance. A laugh chokes in your throat, stifled only by the self-restraint of an older sibling. 

“Hey Wilbur,” they say, and you lift your hand up in acknowledgement. “You wouldn’t have happened to see Tommy around, have you?” 

Your internal debate is not as complicated as you thought it would be. “Nope,” you claim, popping the ‘p.’ The mask of wide-eyed and earnest innocence, of covering for Tommy, is familiar. 

Eret hums non-committedly, their expression open and focused. “Alright,” they say. “I believe in you.” 

Hope blossoms. “I’ll tell you if I see him, though,” you promise. Eret nods back at you, their trust held open in their hands.

A loud and raucous laughter breaks the stillness between the two of you. Eret’s head swivels with the same intensity as a bloodhound tracking a scent, and with their crown slipping down their hair, they curse, “Oh, that little shit.”

You watch as Eret speeds into the distance, and when they are gone you stoop to pick up Tubbo’s discarded hat. The felt is crisp and fuzzy in your hands. For a moment, you feel crisp and fuzzy too, fondness bubbling up from inside and threatening to spill out for the entire world to see.

The hat slips through your fingers.

Carefully, quietly, cautiously, you make your way back to the camarvan. Pushing the door open, your question hangs in the air. 

“Fundy?”

“In here!”

You make your way past the drivers area and into the brewery. Fundy sits in the corner, wrapped in quilts. His nose is visibly irritated and red, and his cheeks are flushed in sickness. A pile of tissues lay off to his side.

“How are you feeling?” You ask. It has been a few days, but there is no doubt in your mind about a hasty recovery. 

“I’m fine,” Fundy says, and then amends: “I’m feeling better. I took a healing potion when I woke up, so the sneezing has gone down.” 

A part of yourself calms. Fundy’s forehead is warm to the touch and his face a little sweaty, but it’s not unexpected with the layers around him. His ears flicker and twitch as you comb through his hair. 

“Wilbur, stop treating me like a child,” he whines, shying away from your hand. 

You cup his face with two hands. “You’re always going to be my son no matter what.” And suddenly you diverge into baby-talk: “My little champion. Just look at—”

“Wil.”

“—those fluffy little cheeks, my crayon little boy—”

“Wil.”

“—my little fox boy, you’re so cute, oh yes you are.”

Fundy bats your hand away. “Wilbur, I will end you and then myself if you continue.”

You dramatically sigh. “Alright,” you pout and straighten up. The day has just started, and you can’t spend the entire day indulging in antics. There’s a country to run, and a new system of government to set up, and negotiations to be made. New structures need to be approved, and resources need to be mined and gathered from the surrounding region. And, of course, the mundanities of life: food to cook, time to sleep, potions to brew and to sell. 

There’s so much that needs to be done.

As you turn to leave, you feel a strong grasp on your arm. It’s Fundy, his paw holding onto you and his eyes shining with a strange intensity. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asks. “You’re a good father, and I would really miss you if you were gone.” 

Your heart melts. “Aw, of course I know, Fundy,” you say sweetly as you open the door to the outside. “I love you too.”

Today is a perfect, normal day in L’Manberg.

* * *

Even in death, Tommy is a little shit. 

You stare at this blonde hellhound, his energy bouncing off non-existent walls and onto the fields of Asphodel. His red and white baseball t-shirt is crumpled with grass stains, and his mouth is set in a wide grin. 

When did Tommy get his braces off? 

“WILBUR,” he booms, larger than life. “I can’t believe you’re here, big man!” 

You stare at him. “I’m here because _I’m_ dead. Why are _you_ here?”

“What, we can’t—we can’t share real estate?” Scoffs Tommy. 

This Tommy is not the Tommy you are familiar with. The Tommy you knew after your death is faded and tired. He is cut, bandaged, and barely healed. He has a fighting spirit forced upon him, perseverance and burden pushing down on his shoulders. He is bright and mischievous, happy and witty—a result hard-earned in the face of hurt. For that, you are not jealous. 

This is not that Tommy. This is a Tommy who is bright and mischievous, happy and witty but only because he has not seen the world yet. He is a young child, wishing good things to the people around him. He has imagined a future, and that future is nice. In it, he will grow old, and he will be blessed with watching the people he loves grow old too. They will all live like that: together and kind and filled with so much love. 

Something churns uncomfortably in your gut. You want to cradle that version of life, hold it close; you want to bottle that normal, perfect vision and revisit it, over and over. Like a picture tucked in your back pocket, edges worn from constant review—you want to crawl under the covers and sleep with the image pressed tightly to your chest just so that it is the first thing you see in the morning. You will not let go of that happiness, that beautiful light blinking in the distance.

The answer to Tommy’s question, the rejection, is a solid weight on your tongue. Instead, you ask again, “Why are you here, Tommy?”

He gives you a look. “I’m here because I died, Wilbur. Is it me, or did you get more stupid after you died? Do you lose permanent brain cells in death?” A look of horror passes over his face, comical and exaggerated. “Oh god, did _I_ lose brain cells? How am I going to complete my A-levels now, Wilbur, oh god—”

“Tommy, you’re dead. You can’t graduate or attend uni.”

He straightens. “Shit, Wilbur, I think I’m feeling the effects of death now. It’s like—it’s like the force, Wil. It’s making me stupid. You gotta help me.”

You have the sneaking suspicion that Tommy has felt this effect of death before he died, too. “I’m sorry,” you say faux-somberly. “The stupidity, it’s terminal.”

“But Wilbur, Dr. Wilbur Soot, how will I continue on with this condition?”

“Hm,” you hum. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?” 

Tommy considers for a moment, and then he answers, “Give me the bad news first, doc. Lay it on me. Am I going to die?”

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about death,” you begin. “You see, the bad news is that you’ve been living with this condition for sixteen years already, which means it’s pre-existing and won’t get covered by insurance. But don’t worry! The good news is that you’ve been living with this condition for sixteen years already. Nothing’s changed!”

You laugh at the affronted _Wilbur!_ “Tommy.”

“Wilbur.”

“Tommy.”

“Wilbur.”

“Tommy.”

“Wilbur. I’m going to hit you.”

“Tommy. Tommy, how did you die?”

The jovial attitude screeches to a halt. A pause for the unexpected question, and then: “I—” Tommy cuts himself off, clearing his throat. “Why—” he tries again. 

You wait patiently for an answer. You have nothing but time, after all. 

“Wilbur, why would you ask that? We were—we were having fun.” Tommy’s body flickers, translucent and nervous. A small and breathy chuckle escapes his lips.

You shrug. “We can joke about death, but I can’t ask you how you died?”

“Please don’t do this,” Tommy pleads. “Not now.”

But you continue pushing because you never learned when to stop: “Tell me how you died, Tommy.”

“I don’t remember, Wilbur, I don’t, I really don’t.”

“Try.”

Tommy’s stance is uncomfortable, and he creases his forehead in concentration. His body is still, his eyes focused on something past your shoulder. You can hear the thoughts ringing in his head— _how did I die? How did I?_ Its repetition is clear on his face, and for a moment you’re afraid that you somehow accidentally broke him. 

Then, watching with fascination, with horror: his body transforms. His brow is first peppered with sweat, his skin a glossy sheen from an unknown heat. Then blood starts to drip from his face, running down his eye and dripping from his chin. The scent of iron is thick in the air, and blood pools below his feet. Runny and thin, more and more pours down the purpling bumps and cracks on his face. From his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. And then you watch as his head indents inwards—you watch as his skull gives way unnaturally like it did in those final moments of life, those final gasping moments of life. 

His form flickers back like nothing happened at all. Tommy—the Tommy that you knew when you were alive too—says, “I can’t remember.”

 _You_ were the one who wanted to know in the first place, so why do you suddenly want to close the door on that horrible, sinking knowledge? Backtrack, backtrack, backtrack. Fuck. “That’s okay. I forgot a lot of things when I died. That’s normal.”

But Tommy’s face screws in concentration. “No. Will, you don’t understand. I _can’t_ remember.”

How can you help him? Can you even help him at all?

Tommy continues, “I can—I can only remember the good bits. The best parts of my life. There was L’Manberg, and there were my discs, and there was imprisoning Dream in prison. But—I just don’t understand how I got from one event to another. Like, why did I have to reunite with Tubbo to get my discs? When did I leave? Where did I go? There are these missing gaps in my memory, and I _can’t remember the rest_.”

“That’s normal, too,” you placate. “The forgetting, I mean. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s for the best.”

Tommy sputters. “But why? Isn’t it better to remember?”

You say, “I think if we remembered the worst things that happened to us, we would be trapped in those bad memories forever. It would haunt us. I don’t know if anyone deserves that.”

“And that’s how _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ was created, Wilbur,” Tommy points out. “With logic like that. I mean, can ghosts even be haunted? Like, ghost-ception or something?” 

“It’s just a theory.” A game theory. “Don’t think that hard about it.”

Tommy shakes himself a little. “Well,” he tries comfortingly, “if I can’t remember it, it must not have been that important. Maybe it was something stupid. Death by coconut. Death by swag. Death by pog. Holy shit, _death by pog_.”

“Death by pog,” you echo. 

“Yeah,” Tommy nods furiously. “ Death by pog: too cool to handle. It’s my new slogan, Wilbur. I’m rebranding myself, like Aldi in Australia or 45 year old men going through a midlife crisis. I’m going to buy so many luxury cars to fill that void. It’s going to be incredible.”

You repeat, slowly and carefully, “It’s going to be incredible.” 

There are some things better left happier and hopeful.

* * *

An argument is the first thing you hear when you step outside the camarvan. Loud voices ringing through the air reach your ears, and—well, there goes your plans for the day. 

You tread soft and slowly past the grass and onto the patch of sand. Sugar cane, recently sheared, pops into view as you approach as quietly as possible. Which is, to say, not that quietly. The shouting is covering the noise of your footsteps almost completely, and from your position you see three squabbling outlines slightly off to the side. 

“Where is it, Tommy?” Eret’s voice is deep and irritated, edging on anger. 

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eret,” denies Tommy.

Tubbo nods enthusiastically next to him. “I’ve been with Tommy the whole day, and he hasn’t done anything.”

Eret ignores Tubbo. “Tommy, I know you took—”

“I did not. I did not take anything, why don’t you listen to me?”

“That’s bullshit, I saw you taking it down. You can’t tell me that wasn’t you. Only you would do that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was already removed by the time I was there!”

Eret scoffs. “Then who did it?”

Tommy scowls. “All I’m saying is that it wasn’t me. Why don’t you believe me?”

Tubbo steps in to defend Tommy: “You could’ve seen me! How could you know it wasn’t me? Or it could have been one of the numerous teenagers on the server. Or a prank from someone in the Greater Dream SMP!”

Eret crosses their arms, one eyebrow lifted in a _yea, sure, buddy_ kind of way. “Who else could it have been?”

“... Purpled?” 

“In a L’Manberg revolutionary war getup?”

“He was cosplaying?” Eret doesn’t move from their stance, and Tubbo deflates. “It still could’ve been me.”

“It wasn’t you,” Eret claims confidently, and Tubbo deflates further.

“Sorry,” you cut in before Tubbo can spin to the ground, flat and empty like a popped balloon. “Does anyone want to clue me in on what happened?”

Three voices rise up at the same time:

“I got up today just like normal, and—”

“Eret is accusing me of stealing—”

“Nothing happened, nothing happened!”

Holy shit. You point to Eret and yell, “One at a time, please! One at a time! Eret, go first. We’re not in fucking primary school!”

“Wait,” Tommy complains. “Why does the accuser get to go first? Why don’t I get to defend myself? This is so fucking unfair.”

You correct yourself. “Eret, go first. Tommy still attends primary school.”

“Excuse me, you fucking as _mmmmmmmmm_!” You slam your hand over his mouth, and his foggy eyes bug out in fury. His arms wave like an inflatable tube man controlled by rough winds, and he pounds at your shoulder furiously. He may be young, but _ow_ can he hit. Your bicep aches in pain. 

“Sorry about that,” you apologize pleasantly, and Tubbo looks like he’s about to pass out. “Go, Eret.”

“I got up today just like normal, and like every morning I went out to raise the flag. But I got to the flagpole today, and the flag was already up. I thought that maybe you had already gotten to it, Wilbur, so I left to eat some breakfast alone in the camarvan. And then, when I looked out the window, I saw someone in L’Manbergian clothing _scaling the flagpole like an idiot_. I rushed out when I saw them tearing the flag from the pole, and then I heard Tommy yelling. So naturally I connected the _very obvious dots_ —”

Tommy starts pounding on your shoulder harder.

“—and now I finally caught up to him. And Tubbo, it seems. They hid the flag, and now they’re claiming that _I_ don’t deserve it because I forgot to take it down last night. Which is my fault, but hiding the flag isn’t going to change that Tommy did a really stupid thing, putting himself in danger like that.”

Tommy finally manages to tear away from you with a well-placed strike from a sheared piece of sugar cane. “That’s complete crap! I didn’t climb the flagpole, and I wasn’t the one who took it!”

You very vividly remember Tommy passing you by earlier with a bundle of cloth in his hands. You raise a disbelieving eyebrow, and he flushes an embarrassed red. 

“Are you going to say anything else besides ‘I didn’t take the flag?’” You question.

“No, my rights are being suppressed.”

“Solid defense, I believe you now.”

“I didn’t, Wil,” he threatens. “I didn’t.”

“Uh huh.”

“I didn’t.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t!”

“The more you say that, the more convincing it becomes. Please, continue.”

“My—my rights are being suppressed. Where’s my right to an attorney? Where’s my right to public defense?” Tommy grumbles. 

You cross your arms. “You have the right to make a public defense,” you state. “You’re just refusing to give one besides ‘I didn’t take it, believe me and our lord and savior Dresus Christ!’”

“I’m leaving,” he announces, “and I’m leaving for completely unrelated reasons. I’m just an incredibly busy man with lots of women to handle.” You watch as he takes Tubbo by the arm before storming off, apropos of nothing (according to Tommy). 

When Tommy and Tubbo leave, silence drifts over you and Eret like light fog in the morning, refreshing and cold. You peer past the edge of the lake before turning to Eret, amused. They shake their head with an exasperation likely reflected on your own expression and ask, “You’ll talk to him?”

You give them a small smile—just the corner of your mouth quirking up slightly, really. “I’ll talk to him.” And then: “You sure you were alone eating breakfast?”

Eret nods. “Well,” they say suddenly. “I trust you’ll get to the bottom of this, Wilbur. Tommy gives me a headache sometimes. I don’t know how you deal with him.” 

“Don’t worry, Eret,” you reassure. “In fact, I think I already know what happened.”

* * *

Time passes like sludge. On one particularly contemplative day, Tommy asks, “Do we deserve closure?” 

You lift your head up from the grass from where both of you are laying in silence. There is no brightness above the afterlife; no stars, only dark. 

“Sorry, repeat that?”

Tommy props his head up with his elbow. “I once read that closure, if it exists at all, is for the afterlife or the people left behind. We’re dead, Wilbur, and this is the afterlife. We can close the ledger of our lives for ourselves, but—do we deserve it? Do I deserve closure?”

You consider for a moment. “Well, shit, Tommy, that’s a big thing to ask. Where’d you read this from?”

“Hey—a book, I read it from a book,” Tommy says defensively, and you laugh once, loud and sharp. Your forearm loops around Tommy’s shoulders, and you rub your hand ferociously across his hair. “What? I read!”

“Sure you do,” you tease over his indignant squawks. “What book?”

Tommy huffs defensively. “I dunno, I forgot. Stop—stop doing that! I legitimately forgot, okay, Wil?”

He swats you away, and you plop your head back down to stare at the starless sky. Here in Asphodel, it is silent and still. No whistling of wind between grain, no cicada song or toads croaking by the riverside. It is just you and Tommy and your thoughts, forever and forever, until the end of time.

This is a blessing; this is a curse. 

“Well,” you say after a pregnant pause. “Closure isn’t meant for us, is it?”

Death has made Tommy more philosophical, it seems, but no less vain. He wrestles with his hair, trying to style it back into a manageable shape. “How so?”

“Okay, look at it like this, right?” You sit up, eyes intent and concentrated. “When we were alive, we lived these lives _with_ other people right? And even though we had friends and family, we didn’t live _for_ them. We lived for ourselves. But every time we met new people, we gave a bit of ourselves to them anyway. Pieces, really. And when our lives ended, that was closure for us. There’s nothing more we can do because we gave most of those pieces away to the people we loved in life, and whatever wasn’t given was taken away by death. 

“So we don’t decide, right? We don’t have pieces of ourselves to keep because there’s nothing left for us. But those pieces we gave away to other people, the people we loved—they get to decide what to do with them. It’s the living that gets to close the ledger on my life, not me. So, no—I don’t deserve closure because it wasn’t meant for me.”

“But what about me?” Tommy interjects. “If death is the only closure we get, how come I can’t even remember how I died?”

Death is fair but not kind. For Tommy, though, you would like to believe that death has made an exception. You would like to believe that making him forget is the kindest thing it could do.

You don’t reply.

“And,” Tommy says after a moment. “Your theory doesn’t make much sense either. If death took away all of our pieces, then what are we now? How do we exist, even as ghosts?”

You blow out a breath. “I think—I think we’re just imitations of who the living want us to be, Tommy.”

Still, Tommy shakes his head. “That can’t be it, Wil. That can’t be.”

The best version of Tommy when he was alive was his hope. You witnessed it firsthand: witnessed his hope for L’Manberg when it was a drug cartel and then an independent territory; witnessed his hope for victory and success during the presidential elections and then in the dark days of Pogtopia; witnessed his hope for you when you were just as optimistic, and then. And then. 

A light shines in the corner of your vision.

In death, this is what Tommy boils down to—a bright, infectious hope with no rashness, no fight except for the one in his heart. He is the greatest part of himself, packaged neatly in the naiveté of a teenage boy. 

Tommy asks, “Do you see that?”

In Asphodel, there is nothing but miles and miles of grassy field all around you. Wheat and flowers and that beautiful, blinking light—those are the only things you have known in the entire time you have been here. There is nowhere else to go, nothing to do. 

“No?” You answer. “There’s nothing.”

But Tommy is already off, trodding over long stalks of grain and wheat. His path leaves indents in the field. 

“Tommy?” You call out, running after him. He reaches his hands outward as if to capture the light like a firefly in cupped hands, and you shout, “Tommy, don’t!” But his hand is already swiping downwards, and for a brief moment he disappears completely from your view. 

You are alone again in the wide world, this wide death. The one good thing that you had here Tommy has taken away. Why? Why is it that only he shares this place with you and not Schlatt or Mexican Dream? Why him? Why you?

Momentary viciousness burns deep within you, the embers still smoldering from the person you were when you were alive. It swirls, ready for you to fan the flames into fire. It tempts: _Wilbur, I can hide your hurt if you let me hurt others too, so they know how your pain feels. Let me do that for you. Let me help you._

No, stop, stop—that piece of you burned out when you died. 

“Tommy?!” You shout again, and suddenly, suddenly—

—suddenly your world builds up around you, and Tommy is here. He is a beacon of childish wildness, carefree and smiling. His form has shrunk just a little, his hair cut a bit shorter. His clothes have morphed into familiar revolutionary wear: the overcoat dark and clean, the hat fuzzy and crisp. His eyes are glazed over, a thin film of fogginess dulling his bright blue eyes. When he smiles, his braces glint in the light. 

“Hi, Wilbur!”


	2. in stillness, boys, clear water to the bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Wilbur talk and have a difference of opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be gentle with yourself as you uncover your best kept secrets yet to be discovered

Your first stop is back to Fundy at the camarvan. Through the front windshield glass you spot him now sitting shotgun, having moved from the middle to the front of the van for a better view of the drama and shouting. Your eyes meet his, and he guiltily shifts in the seat as you open the door. 

“Fundy,” you scold from the doorway, and he melts down.

Fundy says weakly, “Sorry.”

“I mean,” you continue, taking the driver’s seat. “Climbing flagpoles early in the morning isn’t great for your health, especially because you’re sick. If you don’t know how to get the flag down, don’t go up after it. And if you don’t know how to disconnect it from the flagpole, I can show you. It’s really simple. You don’t have to tear the flag down.”

Somehow, impossibly, Fundy flushes even further. “Sorry,” he says again. 

“Just don’t do it again. Or ask me how to do it so you don’t fall to your death. Your mother would’ve killed me if you got hurt, you know.”

Fundy is a broken record. “Sorry.”

“I mean,” you ask, “what were you even planning on doing anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Fundy bursts. “I don’t know what I wanted. I was just tired of being cooped in here because I got the flu, so I took a walk. And then I saw the flag, and—I dunno! I wanted to play a prank. No one would’ve suspected me. I don’t know. Sorry, Wilbur.”

You bow your head down and close your eyes. The silence is awkward and still, and the faint noises of brewing bubble behind the two of you. 

Hesitantly, Fundy asks, “How did you figure it out? That it was me?”

You blink and tilt your head back on the headrest. “Eret,” you say tiredly. “Eret said that they ate breakfast alone in the camarvan, where you should have been resting. And your temperature this morning. You were sweaty and heated enough for it to be a fever, but you said you already had a healing potion.”

“It wasn’t a fever,” confirms Fundy.

“No,” you accuse, “it was just you climbing up the flagpole.”

Fundy throws his hands up in the air. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have taken the flag. I know it goes against the spirit of the nation of L’Manberg or whatever.”

For some reason, a low heat festers deep in your chest. It sits there, hot and heavy over your heart, searing your next words: “I’m not angry because you wanted to pull a prank, Fundy. I’m angry because you put yourself in danger doing it!”

Fundy’s ears flatten against his head, an ashamed expression crossing his face. For some goddamn reason, you feel guilty about shouting; for some goddamn reason, you don’t feel guilty enough to apologize. The air in the van is suddenly stifling, and you turn to roll down the window for ventilation. A cool wind rushes in and blows through you, tickling the fur on Fundy’s face. 

Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like you’re here at all. 

“Sorry,” he mutters. You close your eyes and press the heels of your hands in your sockets. 

You know how this script goes. “It’s okay,” you console, a wobbly smile plastered on your face. “It was probably unhealthy to have you only stay inside anyway, right? Go out and have some fun. Just not too much fun.” 

Fundy whoops, and he tosses off his quilts with such speed that it smacks you on the face. “Yes! I’ll stay safe! I’ll stay so safe that if a man approaches me, I’ll start yelling that they’re trying to kidnap me and run away, no matter who they are! That’s how safe I’ll be!”

“Please don’t,” you get out painfully. But Fundy is already bursting open the door. 

“Get ready, world! I’ll stay so safe I’ll kidnap _you_ instead!” An errant sneeze stops him before he can say more, and he groans in discomfort. You celebrate silently. 

“Before you go, did you see where Tommy went?”

He flies out of the door, pointing in the direction of the flagpole and whooping for Tubbo. A whoop echoes back, and you yell, “Fundy, if Tubbo gets sick, you’re never leaving the camarvan!”

“Love you too, Wilbur!” Fundy yells back. 

You sigh and stand up from the seat, cracking your back and making your way back out. Maybe after you talk to Tommy and get the flag back, you can rest a little. Screw the paperwork. It can wait. This normal, perfect day is waiting for some fun, and you imagine yourself goofing off for the rest of the day. You can worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. 

Idly, ambling, you take the longest path from the camarvan to the flagpole. Grass, fresh and crisp, crush beneath your feet. 

The sun is already high above your head when you reach the flagpole. Without anything hanging off of it, it stretches tall and empty in the sky, the metal rod standing starkly in contrast against the natural surroundings. At the base of the pole with his back turned to you is Tommy, the loose shape of a flag unfurled in his hands. 

“Tommy, you didn’t have to take the fall for Fundy.”

He is standing very still, very silently. You approach cautiously. “Tommy?”

A soft murmur. 

“Tommy, did you say something?”

Silence, and then: “This never happened.”

Your heart ricochets, and your pulse races like a drumbeat for war. You haven’t even finished the day yet. This is too soon; Tommy’s realization was always going to be too soon. You are frozen to your position, that ice-cold feeling starting in the pit of your stomach and spreading faster, faster throughout your entire body. You inhale, harsh and deep and unnecessary. You have been dead for a very long time, but for some reason breathing is just another habit that dies hard.

Your mouth is so, so dry. “Sorry?” 

Tommy turns around, and his eyes are bright as day. “Wilbur,” he says. “This never happened.”

* * *

The fantasy crumbles. A piece from the corner breaks off first, and like followers the rest fall down in suit. One by one, and then a few more, and after that even more until it is all broken. The shards rain down like glass, passing through you and Tommy harmlessly. They lie there, innocent and ominous and reflecting that dark, dark sky of Asphodel. 

“Wilbur,” Tommy exclaims. “What were you expecting? That I would be stuck there like the other puppets you made, just to make yourself feel better?”

You shrink back. 

Tommy continues. “I mean, really, what were you expecting? What were you going to get out of that? Really, I need you to explain it out to me. Was Tubbo just going to be there like a sidekick, supportive and loyal no matter what? Someone foolish and uninspiring who you could trust because they would never one day become President and ruin your country?

“Was Eret going to continue telling how much they trusted you, how much they looked up to you? Were they going to say that they would never betray you because they thought you were a great leader and would lead L’Manberg out of any trouble it would face? Would they always ask you to solve their troubles because you wanted them to believe in you?

“What about Fundy? What was he supposed to be? Some stock character son, put there so you could take care of him like you never really did when you were alive? Was he supposed to tell you that he loved his father _so much_ that he was never once ashamed of you like all children sometimes are of their parents? That he knew how hard it was to raise him single-handedly, and that he respected you for what you tried to do even though it wasn’t enough?

“And what about me, Wilbur? What was I? _What was I?_ ”

A thousand replies rest in your mouth, but the only one you can say is, “I thought you didn’t remember all the bad memories.” 

Tommy’s hands curl in anger. “If I didn’t before, I sure do now.”

And here it is. This is Tommy post-election, post-Festival, post-you. This was all you, this Tommy who has seen life and has been beaten down by its trials. Bleeding, open wounds, festering somewhere hidden away. Burdened and angry and reckless and stupid. Stupidly hoping, stupidly believing, still stupidly trying. 

(That part of Tommy was not you; that part of Tommy was always wholly himself.)

A beat passes between you. Asphodel is pulsing dark. 

“I don’t know, Tommy, I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry that you were trapped in there, even if I didn’t know it was going to happen. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that it happened. _Isn’t that enough?_ ”

“I want answers,” Tommy demands unrelentingly. 

“Tommy, please,” you scoff. “Do you want me to apologize for making a place where I could feel safe, where I could feel happy? I can’t apologize for that. I can only say sorry for accidentally keeping you in there and for lying that it didn’t exist.”

“But,” Tommy asks. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

He throws his hands down, gesturing at the shards evaporating back into Asphodel. “Why this, all this, Wil! Why did you need to do this to begin with? Weren’t you happy that you died?”

Tommy still doesn’t understand, did he. He is all burning righteousness, so confident that he has the right answer. All that exuberance and annoyingness and happiness is inside him, and you—you had to search for that. For you, happiness and hope was always just on the outside, waiting like new neighbors, patient and undemanding. Not wanting to break in—just standing there, waiting for you to invite them in. 

When you noticed them on your doorstep for the first time, you were already dead. But you opened your door and beckoned them inside anyway, and they showed you all the things you could have had.

“Because,” you explain tiredly, if ghosts can feel tired at all. “When they choose someone to revive, it’s going to be you. And if that’s the closure the people on the server want, then it’s their choice. It was never going to me, Tommy. You’ll have your—your second chance at life, at happiness. I won’t. This is what I get, Tommy. I don’t care if it’s not real, or if it never happened. If I want a fantasy, I want a happy one.” 

Tommy stares back at you. And then: “It was Dream, you know.”

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Dream,” he says. “Dream killed me. He beat me to death in his prison cell.”

The only thing that runs through your mind is, _Of course it was Dream_. There’s no outrage, no hysterics, no sadness. Just resignation. After all, you don’t have the power to go back in time and reverse death. You can only stay here and imagine new, happier pasts. 

Tommy is taking his death remarkably well.

“If you want,” you offer, “you can stay here and create your own dream. You can be the person you wanted to be in life. The hero of L’Manberg, the vice-president, the happy friend and son, whomever you want. You won’t be sad when you’re in there, not ever. Things will turn out the way you want them to, and it may be predictable, but it’s good, Tommy. It’s good in there, trust me.” 

But Tommy shakes his head. “I can’t.”

You have spent so long in your dream. In there, you know all the constants: Tubbo’s boyish friendship, Tommy’s harmless mischievousness, Eret’s devout loyalty, Fundy’s childish acceptance of you in his life. These people are not themselves, but they are simple to love and simple to understand. 

You ask, genuinely curious, “Why not?”

Tommy looks down at the ground, first at your feet and then at his own. Neither of you are standing on it completely—you’re both floating an inch above, not quite bound by physics but not quite ready to let it go. “I can’t stay in the past like that, Wil. Look,” he says abruptly, “I didn’t want to die, right? Not like you. You asked Phil to stab you. I didn’t ask to get stuck in a prison cell with Dream. I didn’t ask to get in a fight with him. I didn’t ask for him to kill me. This wasn’t my choice, Wil. I’m living the consequence of someone else’s worse decisions, and _I didn’t even want it_.”

Tommy’s breath shakes a little, but his eyes are set in a determined stare. He continues: “I had so many things waiting for me out there. I had—I had so many unfinished plans, you know? My world ended with this whimper, and I couldn’t even remember how pathetically it went down after it happened. Wil, it hurts so much now. Because before, the only Tommy I needed to feel sad for losing was the perfect Tommy I had been in my best memories. But now I have to do that for both the stupid, annoying person I really was and the person I could have become given time. And, I don’t know, Wil. It’s all jumbled up in my head, because this is all happening _really fucking quick_ and I have to deal with your bullshit at the same time, but—”

You laugh wetly.

“—no matter how bad _this_ version of life was, it’s still the one that happened. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I lied to myself like that. I can’t. _You_ can’t, Wil.”

Tommy has so much hope for life, even after he is dead.

“When did you get so smart, Tommy?” You ask. “You wouldn’t have said any of that if you were alive. You wouldn’t have accepted death so fast either. This isn’t you; this isn’t me. We’re just harmless, better versions of the people we were. Death,” you gesture at Tommy and then yourself, “changes us. We lost, and we lost ourselves. So what’s one more lie, Tommy? What’s one more?”

Timidly, Tommy whispers, “Better a half or quarter or eighth of the real me than all of someone who never existed in the first place.” 

You imagine looking at the crater of L’Manberg with solid feet and solid remorse. It would probably kill you. 

Weakly, you close your eyes. “That’s the one thing I’m not jealous of, you know? In here, I can have my normal, perfect ending. But if they resurrect me, this’ll all be gone. I won’t be a good leader or favorite brother or a caring father. I’ll have the burden of the person I was. I don’t want to live the life of a ghost I half-remember, Tommy. I don’t want to live the life of that person who felt happy that he died. So I feel glad that they’ll choose you, but I don’t. Is that bad?”

Tommy says, “Yes, that’s bad.”

Tommy says, “Fuck, this is depressing.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “It is. I am.”

“Doesn’t it get boring, though?” Tommy stretches, extending his arms outwards. “All that repetition, I mean. There are only a few ways that perfect can go. There’s so many more ways for things to go wrong. Where’s the fun if everything turns out the way it’s supposed to all the time?”

You don’t have an answer to that. Instead, you ask, “Where’s the fun if nothing turns out the way it’s supposed to all the time?”

You stare at Tommy, and he stares back at you.

“Well,” he says, breaking the silence. “If you’re going to be sad and shit, I’ll stay here with you. We can talk about the Queen of England. We can talk about girls.”

You look down at the barren ground at your feet. As gently as you can, you say, “It’s okay, Tommy. You don’t have to do that.” A distant glow pulses in the corner of your eye, reformed and bright and enrapturing. Its shape is more defined this time, like the edges of a jigsaw puzzle thrown together haphazardly and messily. You want to fix it; you want to touch it. “This is—this is my choice to make, and all you have to do is not follow me, this time.”

You will not let go of that happiness, that beautiful blinking light in the distance.

* * *

Today is a normal, perfect day in L’Manberg. The grass is damp with morning dew below your feet, the sounds of chatter bright and distant. A bare hint of breeze sweeps through the pine needles around you. The sun shines lovely and sunny, its rays warming your overcoat from the night before.

Everything is beautiful, everything is good. There’s so much that needs to be done, but you want to revel in this small slice of morning before the work beckons you to your seat. 

Tubbo sits by the edge of the lake, hat discarded to his side and legs swinging casually in the water. Peaceful and calm, he greets you with his head tilted backwards. “Hello!” he says. 

“Hello,” you call back. Tubbo is a loyal supporter; you are glad to have him by your side. “Fine day for a dip.”

Tubbo makes a noise of assent. “It’s nice out today,” he says. “Lately it’s just been a lot of hail and lightning and thunder, so I’m happy that the sun's decided to come out today.”

You nod. “You never know when it’s going to come back, too. But it’s nice today.”

“Yea,” Tubbo agrees. “It’s much quieter too, now. I think I heard Tommy shouting earlier, but for some reason he’s silent now. I should go check up on him.”

“Mm.” You hope no one has gotten horrendously hurt. There are very few reasons you can think of as to why Tommy has gone quiet, and besides unconsciousness and sleep, you don’t really have a lot to go off of. Remaining incognito has never been Tommy’s strong suit, but it is a possibility. “Indoor and outdoor voices are the same for him.”

Tubbo stares at you solemnly, his features sobering up into something more somber. “Do you think he’s gotten himself in trouble?”

“Tommy’s always in trouble, Tubbo.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo says slowly at first, and then more enthusiastically. “Yeah. Yeah! It’s not like Tommy’s in serious harm. No, surely not. He can handle whatever is thrown at him.” His face morphs into something more relaxed, and you smile back at him. 

“Just enjoy this moment, Tubbo,” you advise. “You’ll get pulled into whatever antics Tommy is doing sooner or later, so worry about it when he comes for you. Enjoy the life around you right now, yeah?” 

You turn to look back at the calm ripples in the lake. A beat passes between you. 

“I’m just glad I’m here enjoying the weather, you know?” Tubbo’s eyes glint with the reflection of water, and the corner of his mouth is pulled upward. “And enjoying the present company, of course. It’s always raining when you’re gone.” 

You echo, “Of course.” The confession of friendship makes you feel slow and sweet, like honey in water. 

The buzz of bees drone in the background when you sit down. They fly by, fat and lazy with pollen dripping from their bodies. Yellow bumbling breaks the patterned blues and grays and whites of the sky. Clouds, wispy and cirrus, drift by and promise cool shade in the afternoon. Beautifully, marvelously, they are painted with wide brushes in broad streaks and strokes. 

Quiet sweeps in waves as the two of you sit in companionable silence. It is a slow start to a good day. You want to stay here and listen to the world waking up. You could stay here forever. 

The reverie is broken by Tommy bursting out of the woodwork, a loose bundle of cloth clutched tightly his arms. “Come on, Tubbo, run, run, run!” His face is flushed red with exhilaration and excitement and exertion, manically gleeful with youth. 

“Hello, Tommy,” you greet amusedly. Tommy’s foggy eyes dart towards you guiltily, and his response is cursory:

“Hi, Wilbur!” He yanks Tubbo up by his arm, and despite Tubbo’s _wait, what’s going on, Tommy, slow down!_ they’re off in a flash. “Bye, Wilbur! You didn’t see me!” 

You are left in the wake of dirt and dust. 

Eret pushes out of the brush a minute later. Their eyes are indecipherable under their dark sunglasses, but their lips are pressed thin in annoyance. A laugh chokes in your throat, stifled only by the self-restraint of an older sibling. 

“Hey Wilbur,” they say, and you lift your hand up in acknowledgement. “You wouldn’t have happened to see Tommy around, have you?” 

Your internal debate is not as complicated as you thought it would be. “Nope,” you claim, popping the ‘p.’ The mask of wide-eyed and earnest innocence, of covering for Tommy, is familiar. 

Eret hums non-committedly, their expression open and focused. “Alright,” they say. “I believe in you.” 

Hope blossoms. “I’ll tell you if I see him, though,” you promise. Eret nods back at you, their trust held open in their hands.

A loud and raucous laughter breaks the stillness between the two of you. Eret’s head swivels with the same intensity as a bloodhound tracking a scent, and with their crown slipping down their hair, they curse, “Oh, that little shit.”

You watch as Eret speeds into the distance, and when they are gone you stoop to pick up Tubbo’s discarded hat. The felt is crisp and fuzzy in your hands. For a moment, you feel crisp and fuzzy too, fondness bubbling up from inside and threatening to spill out for the entire world to see.

The hat slips through your fingers.

Carefully, quietly, cautiously, you make your way back to the camarvan. Pushing the door open, your question hangs in the air. 

“Fundy?”

“In here!”

You make your way past the drivers area and into the brewery. Fundy sits in the corner, wrapped in quilts. His nose is visibly irritated and red, and his cheeks are flushed in sickness. A pile of tissues lay off to his side.

“How are you feeling?” You ask. It has been a few days, but there is no doubt in your mind about a hasty recovery. 

“I’m fine,” Fundy says, and then amends: “I’m feeling better. I took a healing potion when I woke up, so the sneezing has gone down.” 

A part of yourself calms. Fundy’s forehead is warm to the touch and his face a little sweaty, but it’s not unexpected with the layers around him. His ears flicker and twitch as you comb through his hair. 

“Wilbur, stop treating me like a child,” he whines, shying away from your hand. 

You cup his face with two hands. “You’re always going to be my son no matter what.” And suddenly you diverge into baby-talk: “My little champion. Just look at—”

“Wil.”

“—those fluffy little cheeks, my crayon little boy—”

“Wil.”

“—my little fox boy, you’re so cute, oh yes you are.”

Fundy bats your hand away. “Wilbur, I will end you and then myself if you continue.”

You dramatically sigh. “Alright,” you pout and straighten up. The day has just started, and you can’t spend the entire day indulging in antics. There’s a country to run, and a new system of government to set up, and negotiations to be made. New structures need to be approved, and resources need to be mined and gathered from the surrounding region. And, of course, the mundanities of life: food to cook, time to sleep, potions to brew and to sell. 

There’s so much that needs to be done.

As you turn to leave, you feel a strong grasp on your arm. It’s Fundy, his paw holding onto you and his eyes shining with a strange intensity. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asks. “You’re a good father, and I would really miss you if you were gone.” 

Your heart melts. “Aw, of course I know, Fundy,” you say sweetly as you open the door to the outside. “I love you too.”

Today is a perfect, normal day in L’Manberg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated early because I just wanted to let this go. Kind of cathartic, really. 
> 
> If you liked this for some reason, I would appreciate it if you checked out my other work Family and Genus, another Minecraft/Video Blogging RPF fic. It's been orphaned because this fandom really likes orphans apparently (but also because there are some children you have to let go).

**Author's Note:**

> Haha AO3 has recently been uhhh experiencing a bug definitely so please check to see if you dropped a kudos and boookmark and leave a comment if you enjoyed because it makes the author feel a little bit better and it's completely free and aLsO check out my twitch at—no I do not have a twitch account.


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